


Spreads Like a Butterfly

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bad Poetry, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 15:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11316693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Someone fashions himself out to be a modern day Pablo Neruda. Arthur Kirkland has a secret admirer! And thinks with his dick.





	Spreads Like a Butterfly

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, this is trash, but I had to get it out since I had such a cute idea from watching Il Postino. The first line and the title of this drabble comes from that movie, so please go watch it!

The same day Arthur drooled into the spaces between his keys during lecture and had a very dashing man inform him his fly was open, he fell into the favors of Pablo Neruda.

Well, a Pablo Neruda that had been reborn as a debauched university student in the States.

Of course, the first time he’d found a note on his door, he didn’t immediately associate it with the Chilean swooner-of-women and poet. He’d sort of ripped it off his door, stormed into his dorm room, and tore it in half. Granted, he wasn’t having the best of days.

Later, when he’d made his peace with himself and felt a tinge apologetic about his earlier actions, he fished the pieces out of the recycling and taped them back together.

_ Your smile spreads like a butterfly _ .

The shiver that licked down his spine felt far too indecent for three in the afternoon on a Tuesday.

However, Arthur didn’t want to give much credence to a single line of verse. He couldn’t imagine very many students at his public university that had the eloquence and grace to pen love notes. Of those he could, the chance that one of them were interested in him were about as small as his last hook up’s dick.

He stopped the drumming of his fingers to twirl the scrap of paper between them, hesitating over the trash can again. He sighed and, instead, dragged open the broken top drawer of his desk to cram it in under a package of opened batteries. 

Well, either someone was courting the wrong door or Arthur had a secret admirer on his hands.

///

The second time Arthur found a bit of prose taped to his door, his day was going, somehow and spectacularly, worse. He’d had his arse handed to him on a silver platter by Planck and Avogadro and some other dead white men in lab coats and cravats. How could a course be called “Chemistry for Non-Majors” if he, a non-chemistry-major, was barely scraping by?

Any more of this passing by the seat of his pants during exams would leave his naked and pasty white arse bared to the world.

Unlike the first time, however, the sight of the scrap of paper managed to upturn just the very corner of his mouth. He immediately forced it back south, but not before prying the note carefully off the door.

_ Arthur- _

_ Your spine arches like the San Gabriel.  _

_ xo _

Arthur spared a glance out his window, where the San Gabriel mountain range surrounded LA. It was a bit of a stretch, but the peaks did remind him a little of vertebrae. As a cloud caressed a peak and slowly receded down the back of the mountain, his own spine shuddered.

That was two for two now as far as toe-clenching shivers-down-your-spine went. At this rate, Arthur might as well get prepared to get weak at the knees within the next few weeks unless he either bucked up a bit or said yes to his little poet suitor.

With no better spot to house his love notes (wow, was this more like Hollywood or second grade?), he stashed it under his pack of opened batteries next to the first one.

He spent a bit more than appropriate amount of time staring at his wall and pondering his options, though he stopped short of letting the drool collecting at the corner of his mouth pool out. He thrummed his fingers on his desk in agitation.

He couldn’t  _ talk _ to the (man? oh please let him be a him with something eager to stick into Arthur) person, unless he left a note on his own door? But that would be too embarrassing if anyone else on his floor decided to go snooping. Maybe he could just skip the pomp and circumstance and just emblazon “YES HAVE MY BODY” across his door?

He supposed that might be a bit of a let down, though, for a person that was clearly trying to go the old fashioned “seduce him out of his socks with fine poetry” route. Was Arthur even qualified enough to deem this poetry?

He glanced back down at his drawer and  _ shuddered _ at the sight of the sticky handle.

Yes, this was pornographically sappy enough to be poetry.

///

The notes kept coming (and Arthur swore to Venus and back he almost did a couple times too).

_ Your voice warms me like dawn warms the earth. _

_ Your shoulders could hold up the world. _

_ Gershwin would compose a symphony from the sound of your laughter. _

_ I dream of your cheeks as sunbathed Georgia peaches. _

_ When you smile, your eyes crinkle like well-loved cotton sheets... _

And on and on and on, until the spot in Arthur’s drawer became jammed with admirations that bordered on sweet and obscene. But from the way Arthur was practically panting this time, it was probably closer to obscene.

This was it. This was the line in the sand. Either Arthur find a solution or tear his door off the hinges so he could get some goddamn  _ peace _ .

He flung the door open with no plan, though he had enough desperation and determination to fake it like he had one-

-and ran right into the most solidly handsome man on his floor. In a gracious act of God not seen since He blessed the Earth with the receding of the flood waters, it so happened that gorgeous man was also crouching over to tape a bit of paper to his door.

“Oh-you?” was the sentence that articulated itself out of Arthur’s mouth after he’d had a hard and long think about it. Honestly, having not fainted on sight was miraculous as far as Arthur was concerned. Yet, that pride wasn’t enough to do just about anything for the fifty shades of red on his face.

“Yeah, um, me?” came his response from...Alfred, was it? (Otherwise known as Mr. Cute-in-a-towel-two-doors-down.) It was accompanied by a smile far too broad to be comfortable on a face of that size.

At this point, their engrossing conversation fizzled to a halt. Arthur was three seconds away from slamming the door shut in sheer agony and Alfred was making quick work of sweating enough to fill a lake.

So instead of giving himself the chance to take another bite of his foot, Arthur just stuck out his hand for the piece of paper Alfred had made disappear into his sweaty fist. When Alfred did release it, after at least three blinks, it was a bit damp.

_ I’m running out of words that sound nice and I hear you grunt a lot after you read my notes. I hope that means this is working, so please go out with me. _

_ -Alfred, aka. the one you watch walk to the shower in a towel _

Arthur couldn’t even bear to look up from the note for a solid fifteen seconds - the slack jaw look was  _ definitely _ not the one he wanted to introduce to Alfred on their first face-to-face. When he did managed to lasso his expression together and dare a glance up, Alfred was still gritting his teeth in a smile like he’d just been kicked in the bullocks and shrugged far too quickly to be casual.

“Date me?” he announced with sweaty jazz hands. Arthur bit his lower lip.

Ah, there was (his?) Neruda.

**Author's Note:**

> And here ends my last ever drabble for Hetalia. )): I know some of you are relieved about it given the trash you just read lol. <3 Thanks for sticking through it!


End file.
